The Curse of the Shrouded Shadow
by Ameraka
Summary: William Wilson has been pursued by his double for most of his life, never able to do what he wants with impunity. In Egypt, can he finally shake his shadowy conscience?


THE CURSE OF THE SHROUDED SHADOW

I walk toward the edge of the sand, placing my hand against one of the columns of the ancient portico. I am shrouded in a cloak, like those the nomads wear. After several weeks here, the sun has burned my skin, dyeing it almost the same shade as the Egyptians'. With my dark hair, I can almost pass for a native.

I have fled Europe, escaping the memories that have haunted me. Above all, I fled the being I detest above all others.

Now, perhaps, I am free. The desert, wide open and so unlike the stifling city streets of Europe, breathes fresh life into me. The heat bakes into my bones, purging my body of all that has passed before. Perhaps here, in this clear, hot air, where the sun shines like a disk of white-hot fire, I will finally be free of my cursed shadow.

The sun is at its zenith. I check my watch; it is almost noon. I am to meet someone here at 12:00. He is a young Egyptian with large black eyes. He is a worker at the docks in Alexandria—altogether insignificant, except that he also knows where there is a cache of gold. One day, he stumbled across a hidden tomb. He told no one but his wife, and planned to forget about it, as he was afraid to disturb the entombed spirits. Foolish boy! By a chance of luck, I met him at a tavern several days after I arrived in Alexandria. I bought him drinks, and his secret spilled from him like wine.

Now I am waiting. Impatience clutches me. What if he is late? I sit down in the shadow of the pillar, where the stone is somewhat cooler.

An hour later, a tiny dot emerges from the shimmering city. It quickly grows larger, splits in two. Camels. They reach the ruin, and Hassan slides to the ground and walks toward me. He is breathless.

"I am sorry I am late—I had to steal the camels. My uncle would not let me borrow them."

"As long as you are here." I shoot him a glance that means that it would have been the worse for him if he had failed me. His wife is being held by a man in my pay. If he fails me yet, I will have to decide what to do with her. And Hassan.

He looks down, his long lashes casting shadows across his bronze cheeks.

"Let us leave," I say.

"Sh-should we not wait until dark? The sun—"

"To be back before morning, we must leave now. I intend to have that gold."

He bows his head in submission. I climb to the camel's back—I have had to become familiar with the disgusting beasts while living here—and we head across the desert.

I almost wish we would have waited until nightfall. The sun rages into my eyes, burns across my back like a thousand lashes. I curl in on myself, shutting out the blazing light and the blowing sand that scratches at my eyes like claws. I huddle into the folds of my rough homespun garment, the smell of my own sweat overpowering.

My tongue feels twice its normal size, and clings to the roof of my mouth.

Water. I need water.

Fumbling for the cask at my hip, I haul the camel to a stop and let the blessed coolness slide down my throat, reveling in it as if it is the fountain of youth.

And we go on.

In the endless heat, in the swirl of never-ending light, something tugs at my mind. Something familiar. A shape rises like a ghost: cloaked in darkness, face hidden—the enemy who has clung to me like a living shadow throughout my life, that hated being who has ruined everything I have ever dreamed, planned, schemed, strategized…who has haunted me since I was a child…

I feel his fingers clutch my arms. I scream. Fight him. Throw myself at him and—

"Sir! Mister Wilson!" A softly accented voice darts into my mind. Hassan. Reality. The present.

I rise from the sand; my hands are scraped and bleeding. Hassan has a bruise darkening his jaw from where I must have attacked him, thinking he was another. We stand in the shade of a tree and the sun is deepening into crimson at the edge of the horizon. A gentle breeze caresses my skin.

"It—it is not far," says Hassan, voice quivering. "This is the oasis where I stopped, before---I found it."

We tie the camels to a palm and he leads me over the crest of a hill, back out onto the sand. The air is cooling, but the sand retains the heat it has absorbed from the sun and the breath of it brushes my face.

Hassan stops. "I think—I think it is right here." I see nothing but sand. "It should be here…"

Hatred blazes in my eyes, blood-red. "If you have tricked me, lied to me, led me wrong, Hassan, so help me..." I want to shake him, throw him down to the sand and make him wish that he was never so much as a dream in the mind of his god.

"N-no, it is here, I swear it! It was just on the edge—" he steps forward. And he disappears in a cascade of sand as if the desert has swallowed him. Is it quicksand? I peer forward. And see a gaping hole, about three feet wide. Hassan moves down below.

"It is all right!" he calls. "Come!"

I slip down the lip of the sand, landing on my feet on a smooth hard surface some six feet below. Above, the stars are starting to prick through the deepening purple mantle of the sky.

It is cold here. Pillars rise nearby, and I can vaguely make out inscriptions and pictures spiraling around them. I light the lantern that I have brought and hand it to Hassan, who leads me down a narrow hallway, the walls spread with many pictures as if they have an epic to tell. Something draws me to decipher their mystery, but I have come for one thing only.

At the end of the hallway a door sits carved in stone. Hassan leans against it, and it slides open with a loud scrape that echoes through the chamber. I slide inside the room, which is dark and several degrees cooler than the hallway. Hassan waits outside holding the lantern and the light dances erratically across the walls. He is shaking.

"It is all right," I say, laying my hand on his shoulder. His eyes in the darkness are pools of night, stars of fear quivering in their depths. "Ghosts are no more real than the god you worship."

Horror flashes across his eyes at my blasphemy. I shake my head in disgust and snatch the lantern from him and step forward.

A tomb, indeed. A stone coffin, carved with pictures of birds, people, rivers. And beside it, in the lamplight—glittering and shimmering like sunlight on water—Gold. Gold, and jewels, the red and blue and sapphire staring at me like the eyes of a thousand insects…

I kneel before them, and pick up a golden chalice. It is exquisite. I see myself reflected in it, my forehead and nose distorted.

"I shall not sell this. If I sell all others…this one will be mine. Mine." The word tastes like the lilac of the lips of a woman I once knew.

I rise. "Come, help me, Hassan."

He doesn't answer. I raise the lantern to see him frozen in the doorway.

Probably just an inscription or a drawing on the opposite wall that means something in his primitive religion—

Someone stands there like the ghost of an ancient pharaoh, avenging the desecration of the dead.

My heart stops. Shudders and threatens to go out like the sputtering lamp.

He steps toward me, his hand outstretched. I know who it is.

"Hassan," he whispers. "Go back to your wife. No harm will come to her now."

He stares at me, and I fancy I can see the glare of his eyes beneath the hooded cloak—which mimic exactly the flowing robes I wear.

Then, he pries the chalice from my hand.

"Leave, Wilson. Your avarice will gain you nothing."

He casts the chalice to the ground with a clatter upon the stones.

I leave in defeat. My relentless shadow has prevailed. But this, I vow, is the last time.

Next time, I shall be ready. I shall meet him and one or the other of us shall survive. I shall be free of him. Even if it costs me my soul.


End file.
